Celia Walden Why leech therapy sucks; What happened next Kim Jong-un makes a PR push

Why leech therapy is a bloody awful beauty treatment

I’ve known a few leeches in my life. Millie from Brownies with her sharp little milk teeth – she was probably the first. It was all, ‘Can we work together towards our Adventure badge?’ and, ‘If you let me come over again I’ll give you my popcorn scratch ’n’ sniff.’ Girls’ schools are cauldrons of squirming little bloodsuckers, and I’ve had the odd leech-like boyfriend. Then there’s Hollywood: leech central – until you lose your job/significant other/ability to advance anyone else’s career. Leeching’s not done covertly out there; it’s a noble thing (how else does one get ahead?). So it stands to reason that they would be pioneering the comeback of leech therapy.

What’s harder to explain is why I am lying on a surgical bed in a clinic called LA Leeches – my stomach and face covered in these little black hermaphroditic wonder slugs. ‘It’ll make great TV,’ purrs the producer who convinced me to film a segment on wacky and wonderful celebrity treatments. And not for the first time that day, my self-respect nosedives: all those years deriding grub-eating goons on I’m a Celebrity, and now look at you. I am, to all intents and purposes, Dean Gaffney.

The thought is cut mercifully short by a nipping on my lower abdomen, as though someone were very gently stabbing me with nail scissors. ‘Leeches have micro-teeth,’ my therapist Irina explains. ‘They can penetrate up to four inches deep, all the while secreting antibiotic enzymes that will detoxify, aid weight loss, reduce inflammation and improve circulation. Right now, this little guy’s working on your liver.’ Which explains why he’s looking woozy. That’s not blood he’s draining, it’s Grey Goose. On the other side of my abdomen, however, his co-workers are getting stuck in – literally – undulating their slick black backs in a frenzy of bloodletting and fattening up on me at a grotesque rate. I’m reminded of the Gary Larson mosquito cartoon (‘Pull out, Betty! You’ve hit an artery!’) and I would laugh but I’m worried one of the leeches on my face might crawl into my mouth.

My leech facial – the hot new celebrity

‘Right now,’ my therapist Irina explains, ‘this little guy’s working on your liver.’ Which explains why the leech is looking woozy. That’s not blood he’s draining, it’s Grey Goose

collagen-promoting, anti-ageing treatment out here – isn’t quite going according to plan. The ones around my jaw won’t ‘take’, and Irina thinks they’re finding my perfume ‘a turn-off’. Which really is the final straw, because if anyone’s ‘a turn-off’ in this scenario, I’m pretty sure it’s the parasitic black worms neck-deep in my dermis (also, hello? It’s Stella Mccartney). But things are going to get worse before they get better.

Once my engorged friends are removed, I’m fitted with what is basically a voluminous abdominal diaper ‘for the oozing’ – oozing that continues for seven hours – and for two weeks I’m left with deep purple weals. I’m sure leech therapy has done wonderful things (and apparently the distinct Y-shaped wounds, known as ‘Mercedes scars’, are a badge of honour in Hollywood), but next time I’m in need of bloodletting, I might just look up Millie the vampiric Brownie.